


scoped and dropped

by syncoping



Series: renegade/renegade [1]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Begging, Dom Shepard (Mass Effect), Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Hand Jobs, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Sub Garrus, shep jerks garrus off while he tries to shoot things bc she is mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syncoping/pseuds/syncoping
Summary: “Just –” That glint in her eye is predatory. “Just let me handle these last few mechs, and then you can touch whatever you want.”“Come on, Vakarian.” Shepard’s voice is like cold smoke. “Do your job and take them out. If you’re half as good a shot as you think you are, you shouldn’t have a problem multitasking.”-(Garrus is an excellent shot. Shepard makes a friendly wager.)
Relationships: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Series: renegade/renegade [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909648
Comments: 25
Kudos: 129





	scoped and dropped

“You know, Shepard,” Garrus drawls, “I’ve heard the trick with sniper rifles is to actually look down the scope.”

“Vakarian,” Shepard says, through gritted teeth, “shut up or I’ll snap your mandibles off one at a time.”

“Noted, Commander.” He watches her lift his Black Widow again. The red dot of the laser dances over yellow grass, dark soil, the mech approaching them.

They’re on shore leave. Well, not really. But this assignment is so trivial it might as well be. Shepard hasn’t even bothered bringing a third person on the ground team. It’s just her and Garrus and an excellent vantage point with good cover, and a seemingly endless supply of hostile LOKI mechs advancing towards their position.

It’s practically a date.

Shepard’s shot hits the mech in the shoulder. It’s forceful enough to break the joint, knocking the arm off, and spin the mech halfway round; it takes a moment to reorient itself, which Shepard uses to line up another shot. This one veers wide of the mech’s head.

“Fuck!” She thumps the Black Widow to eject the thermal clip, loads a new one and hands it to Garrus. The mech is close enough now that it raises its gun in its remaining arm and starts firing; a single bullet clips Shepard’s biotic barrier and is repulsed, sending ripples of light dancing over her. She ducks back down, crouching behind the rusty metal crate they’re using as cover.

Garrus sticks his head out, takes a second to aim, and fires. The mech’s head goes flying. Its body crumples, then explodes, chunks of metal flying. Shepard scowls.

In the soothing tone he knows she hates, he says, “You helped, Shepard.”

They’re competing to see who’s the better shot. Again. Garrus knows it’s him, obviously. He’d started training with sniper rifles as soon as his hands were big enough to hold one. Sure, he can do decent damage at mid-range with an assault rifle too, but he’s most dangerous when he’s above and a behind the front line, with a decent number of spare thermal clips. Shepard, on the other hand, is a close-combat specialist; her favourite strategy involves biotically charging into enemies before detonating her barrier, sending everything around her flying with bone-crushing force, before firing her shotgun into the nearest face. Aiming is generally a foreign concept to her. But ever since that day on top of the Presidium, she’s been demanding a rematch, and this is the perfect opportunity.

Garrus turns his attention to the other mech on the field; it’s further away, but that shouldn’t be a problem. He lines up what should be a perfect headshot – except that a biotic field yanks the mech away at the last moment. It drifts helplessly through the air towards them, limbs flailing. Garrus’ bullet drills uselessly into the earth. He lowers the rifle and shoots Shepard a look.

“I’m helping,” she says. She scratches at the web of glowing fissures on her face.

“I’d worry more about helping yourself,” Garrus says. “What’s the score now, thirteen to six?”

“Thirteen to seven,” Shepard mutters. The pull-field dissipates; the mech tumbles through the air and hits the ground hard. Garrus has barely raised the gun before Shepard, with a cursory flick of her hand, sends a shockwave pulsing through the ground, throwing up clouds of dirt and grass. The mech is flung several feet backwards. It doesn’t get up again.

“That was just mean,” Garrus says.

“To you?”

“To the mech. And that wasn’t eight, by the way. Biotics don’t count.”

She grins at him. “Jealous you can’t throw things around with your mind, Garrus?”

He says, firmly, “I can throw things around just fine with my hands.”

“Sounds good.” Shepard rolls her bad shoulder back. “How about we head down there and try that out instead?”

“You’re the one who wanted a rematch in the first place.” He looks out down the long slope, littered with broken crates and unidentifiable chunks of debris, leading to the cluster of abandoned prefabs. That’s their target, although they’re in no rush to get there. According to Alliance intel, that base belongs to the pirate syndicate that’s been hitting supply ships headed for the half-constructed Crucible. It’s happened enough times now that Hackett wants them either bought off or wiped out. Of course, the Alliance doesn’t really have the spare cash to buy anyone off right now, and Shepard is _excellent_ at wiping people out, so the _Normandy_ had set a course for this uncolonized garden world. But a scan from orbit had shown that the pirates had either been tipped off or gotten exceptionally lucky. The base was clearly abandoned; it had entirely empty, no life signs in the area.

LOKI mechs, of course, don’t have life signs, and when they’re dormant only close-range scanners like the one built into Garrus’ visor can pick them up. Only after they’d approached had they realised that the pirates had left what seems like a small regiment of mechs behind, presumably to protect whatever they didn’t take with them. Enough to be a problem, if they all attacked at once. But the LOKI model’s onboard VI is notoriously weak; without the guidance of organic handlers, the mechs are approaching Shepard and Garrus in threes and fours. They’re not a threat. They’re a vacation.

“There’s another wave coming,” he tells Shepard now, as his visor alerts him to a flicker of movement in the distance. Slender white forms, moving jerkily out of the shadow of the prefabs and heading towards them. He offers her the rifle. “Want to take my last shot?”

Her lip curls in contempt. It’s an expression he can’t help but find attractive. “I don’t need your charity.”

“You know,” he croons, tone sweetly condescending, “ _some_ soldiers would be a little more _appreciative_ of a sniper like me.” Shepard grits her teeth. Garrus has a talent for singing his own praises in ways calculated to get under other people’s skin. “All the times I’ve saved your ass? Prevented you from being overrun, taken out enemies you hadn’t even noticed? _Some_ commanding officers would be grateful.”

“Yeah? _Go find another commanding officer then_.”

“I would,” Garrus says thoughtfully. “But there are . . . certain benefits to serving under you. Ma’am.”

Shepard rolls her eyes.

Meanwhile, the mechs have been approaching. Six of them, this time: three still in the distance, three gaining. Maybe they’re getting smarter. He rests the Black Widow on the edge of the crate, looks through the scope. He’ll take out the furthest one, just to piss Shepard off. He lines up a headshot. Holds his breath for an instant, going perfectly still. His finger starts to move–

Shepard’s hand is suddenly somewhere he does _not_ expect it to be.

“Ah –” It had taken her some time, after their reunion, to figure out the catches and seals of his new armour. These days, she’s an expert. The fastenings of his cuisses are giving way under her fingers. “Shepard?”

“Yes?” She undoes another latch.

“What – uh . . .” The seal of his left cuisse releases. Shepard makes a pleased sound, lifts the metal piece off and sets it down. Shifts over so she can get at the right one. “What are you doing?”

“Just expressing some gratitude.” The fingers of her free hand curl against his left thigh, which is now covered only by his thin undersuit. “Isn’t there something you’re supposed to be doing?”

Garrus opens his mouth, then closes it. He puts his eye to the scope again. The headshot he scores on the furthest mech coincides almost perfectly with the seals on his right cuisse hissing open. Shepard tosses it aside and –

“ _Shepard_!” How does she even know how to find that zipper on his undersuit?

“Careful with that heat sink, Garrus. Don’t let it burn you anywhere important.” Her gauntleted fingers are cool against his exposed guard-plates.

“We’re in a firefight!”

“No. _You’re_ in a firefight.” As if on cue, bullets clatter against the other side of the crate. She traces one finger down the seam of his guard-plates, lightly at first, then harder. It feels electric. “I’d deal with that, if I were you.”

He ejects the clip and loads a fresh one. Fights to regain some composure. He offers her the rifle. “It’s your turn.”

“I’m busy.” His plates are loosening rapidly at her touch; his body always responds to her embarrassingly fast. “You go again.”

Garrus waits for a break in fire, sticks his head up over the crate, takes aim at the nearest mech this time. Bullets bounce against his shields. The shot shatters the screen that serves as the mech’s face, sends it collapsing backwards into its fellows, which chatter in alarm. That, he thinks as he ducks back down, should buy time for him to figure out what the hell Shepard’s game is.

(Still a perfect headshot, though. She’ll have to try harder if she wants to rattle him.)

Shepard says, “I can _feel_ your plates shifting.” She’s rubbing harder into his seam now, coaxing him open.

“Just –” That glint in her eye is predatory. “Just let me handle these last few mechs, and then you can touch whatever you want.”

“Come on, Vakarian.” Shepard’s voice is like cold smoke. “Do your job and take them out. If you’re half as good a shot as you think you are, you shouldn’t have a problem multitasking _._ ”

“Are you crazy?” Blood is rushing to his groin; it’s making it hard to think. “We’re on a mission!”

“Personally? I don’t think you can do it.” Ah, hell, he’s loose enough that there’s wetness clinging to Shepard’s fingers, the fluids from inside his sheath flowing eagerly. “You might be the king of the bottle shooters, but you’re not _that_ good.”

Damn it. How is he supposed to back down from a challenge like that? He scoffs. “You remember who you’re talking to, right? Sure I can do it.”

Her grin is white against her dark skin. “Twenty creds says you can’t.”

The LOKI mechs’ little voices are audible now. “ _Please reconsider your aggressive actions_!”

“Make it f-forty.” He almost manages to hide the crack in his voice as he starts to unsheathe into her hand. Her smile widens.

“Forty, then. And don’t worry, big guy. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

It hits him, then, the way it still hits him sometimes: that’s _Shepard,_ smirking up at him, that’s his wild, ruthless, brilliant commander, who’d slammed into his life with the force of a concussive round, who he’s looked up to and learned from and followed to hell and back, leaning against the metal crate with his hard cock in her gauntleted hand. Somehow, she wants him. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what spirit has smiled on him to make this happen, but –

Bullets hit the other side of the crate again. Garrus shakes himself. Lifts the Black Widow and leans into the scope in one fluid motion. Squeezes the trigger, as Shepard starts stroking him, slow and firm.

Another headshot. Easy. Her gauntlets are hard, not as good as her bare hands, but considering his situation that’s probably a good thing. He drops back down to avoid another round of fire, and once it’s quiet, pops up again, ready.

Shepard says, conversationally: “Sometimes watching you shoot turns me on.”

Garrus’ brain short-circuits. His shot gets the mech in the chest, sends it tottering over onto its back. “Shit!”

“Did you miss?” She sounds amused.

 _Sort of_. “No.” He loads a new clip into the rifle.

“I like how your eyes get when you’re lining up a shot. Kind of sharp. Intense _._ Just like when you’re fucking me.”

Garrus exhales shakily. Her thumb is tracing the swollen ridges along his length, tormentingly slow. “You’re . . . a real romantic, Shepard.”

“I learned from the best,” she mocks. “Why don’t you tell me how _supportive_ my waist looks again?”

He looks through the scope. “Your waist is perfect. It’s phenomenal. Definitely the most supportive waist I’ve ever seen.” And – headshot. The sound of the ensuing explosion is satisfying. Okay, he’s back on track.

“Damn right,” she says. Then: “I like watching your hands move, too. The way you handle your gun--”

“That’s – you’re screwing with me, right?”

“Not this time.”

His mandibles twitch. “This is the buildup to some _terrible_ innuendo, isn’t it?”

“That’s more your thing.” Her thumb brushes against the tapered head of his cock, over the slit; he wills his hips not to buck into her hand. “Seriously, Garrus. Sometimes, after missions, I have to stop myself jumping on you in the shuttle.”

“I, uh. I’m sure Cortez appreciates that.” It’s true that she’s often . . . fired up after they get back to the Normandy, but he’d put that down to simple adrenaline. He pulls the trigger. Another shot to the chest. He scowls, takes another shot as soon as the gun cools to finish the mech off.

Shepard says, slyly, “You’re blushing.”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Trust _her_ to keep an eye on the centimetre of visible hide between his undersuit’s high collar and his face-plates. He can feel the heat rising there, knows his throat must be dark as a flustered adolescent’s. That damned hand of hers, twisting, _too slow_. He loads another clip.

“How is this, by the way?”

“Honestly? You could speed things up a little.” His visor alerts him: more mechs have started making their way from the base towards them. There aren’t even that many prefabs out there. How many LOKIs could you even fit in them?

“I _could_.” She does not. His grumble of frustration goes ignored. “Hell, Garrus, I’d suck you off, but I don’t want to distract you.”

Blowjobs were something Shepard had introduced him to. Until then, oral sex had been something he’d given, but never recieved – the thought of putting his dick in a turian woman’s sharp-toothed mouth was frankly terrifying. But Shepard, with her strange, soft human lips – _no, don’t think about it, don’t think about it!_ “That’s very considerate of you.”

She smiles at him. It is not a nice smile. Her thumb presses against the head of his cock again and he bites back a curse.

“You’re such a – a _xenophile_ , Shepard.”

She laughs. “What does that make you?”

He takes aim. “Your victim.”

“That what you tell yourself, Garrus?”

“As I recall,” Garrus says, battling to keep his voice steady and his subvocals down, “you propositioned _me_.” He fires. Over the gun’s retort he hears Shepard hum thoughtfully. That was it for that group of mechs. He hadn’t quite got that last one in the head, but he’d severed something important in its neck; it collapses, twitching.

“As _I_ recall, you were pretty quick to take me up on that proposition.”

“How could I say no?” he breathes. “To my commanding officer?” He looks through the scope. Yeah, that’s another wave coming, step by clumsy step. Might be the last one, though. His visor isn’t picking up anything left inside the base.

“I thought you were a bad turian who didn’t follow bad orders.”

“I follow _your_ orders. I – ah, _fuck_ –” A gasp escapes him against his will. She’s squeezing him tighter, knocking all thoughts of the approaching mechs out of his head. This is just how he likes to be touched, rough but not quite painful. She knows him too well.

“You do, don’t you,” she murmurs. The points of red light in her eyes gleam. “Even the bad ones.”

“ _Shepard. . ._ ” His subvocals are loud and thrumming, defying his efforts to contain them. He thrusts into her fist, unable to stop himself. “Faster. I need –”

“You _need_ to take those mechs out.” She takes her hand off him abruptly. His cock twitches, clear liquid dripping down its length. “Unless you’re giving up?”

Garrus stares at his Black Widow, trying to collect himself. Forty credits and the remaining shreds of his self-respect are riding on this. He tenses his shoulders, bringing them up, then releasing them. Exhales, swings the gun back up. He tries to focus on the nearest mech, align the sights –

Shepard runs her fingers along the underside of his cock, tracing the vein there. A shiver runs down Garrus’ spine. His shot goes wide, knocks a hole in the wall of one of the prefabs behind the mechs.

“Having trouble?”

“Not even a little,” he croaks. One more shot in this clip. _Get it together._ But his next shot buries itself in the mech’s hip, knocking its leg out from under it. It drags itself grimly over the grass towards him, flanked by its companions. Just four LOKI mechs, for fuck’s sake. He could have handled them as a teenager fresh out of boot camp.

“That’s why you’re my _favourite_ sniper, Garrus.” This would be so much easier if she’d just stop _talking_. “You know what, though? You could definitely use a little more respect for your superior officers. I’d appreciate you more if you behaved a little better.”

“I hate you,” he hisses, reloading.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about. Should be _I hate you ma’am_.” His breath is coming hard and fast, it’s not doing his aim any favours. “You’re not so insubordinate with the Primarch, though. Sometimes I think you piss me off on purpose.”

 _Ignore her. Just line the shot up._ It takes him longer than it should, but he gets the one-legged mech properly this time.

“Why is that, Garrus? Why do you go out of your way to be _such_ a pain in the ass?”

“You look so _good_ when you’re angry,” he chokes out. “It’s so – oh, _spirits,_ yes –” Her finger is pressing just into the opening of his seam, under the base of his cock, massaging the sensitive flesh. He swivels the gun with a shaky hand.

“You wind me up because you think it’s _hot_?”

“I just . . .” He’s dimly aware of how much he’s going to regret telling her this, but he’s not thinking with his brain any more. He fires. Another mech goes down. “I love the way you look at me.”

“When I’m angry?” She’s pumping him faster now. He’s almost there, _almost_.

His hips shudder as he fires, and he misses again. Ejects. “Just – _nngh_ – in general.” Reloads.

“So what, you just want my attention?”

“Always,” he breathes. “Always, Shepard.” The second-last mech gets only a glancing blow, burning black across the side of his chest. He curses.

“Idiot.” She sounds fond. “All you have to do is ask.”

Her thumb rubs the point on the underside of his head where all his nerves seem to be clustered. It’s almost too much. He looks through the scope, unseeing.

“Garrus. Are you close?”

“ _Yes._ ” He shoots almost blindly, blasts a hole in the mech’s armour. It falls, convulses for a moment before going still. “Shepard, _please_ —"

“Please what?”

“. . .please _ma’am_. Commander.” His subvocals are loud and desperate. “ _Please make me come._ ”

“That’s better.” He drags the gun over to aim at the last mech’s head, begs his knees not to give way under him. “Come for me,” Shepard orders, and that’s all he needs to push him over the edge. He squeezes the trigger one last time, and – with a strangled, overheated cry he’ll deny later—comes so hard stars flash before his eyes.

His shot is dead on, though. The last mech’s head bursts; the body staggers forwards a few more paces before exploding, sending pieces of its fellows’ corpses flying. Garrus barely registers this. He’s spilling over Shepard’s fingers, the muscles of his abdomen trembling.

Shepard peers around the crate. “Nice,” she says, with satisfaction. Then, sounding slightly startled. “Hey. Are you still--?”

“ _Yes_!” His thighs are shaking. The pulses are weaker and slower now, but they’re not stopping. Shepard tightens her grip, strokes him until he’s falling against the crate to hold himself up, panting and twitching.

“Damn,” Shepard says, letting go of him at last. Her gauntlet is dripping. “You know, you don’t make such a mess when we’re doing normal things.”

“Nnh,” Garrus manages. This has not been his proudest orgasm. When she touches his softening cock again he flinches, overstimulated. Shepard laughs. Wipes her gauntlet off on the edge of the crate.

“Nice work, Vakarian,” she says. “I owe you forty credits.”

“Shepard,” Garrus begins. There’s probably no salvaging his dignity after this. Well, when it comes to Shepard, he’s never had much dignity to begin with. He gives up on words and just kisses her, long and deep.

When he breaks away for air she says cheerfully, “We should do this more often.”

He clears his throat. “You like three-person fireteams on most missions, remember? Not sure how any of the others would feel about being around for, um. That.”

“True,” she acknowledges. “We’d just have to be stealthy about it. You’d need to be a _lot_ quieter.”

“Hmm.” He can feel his throat flushing blue again. “That sounds . . . challenging.”

“I guess private comm channels exist for a reason.” She taps her fingers against the metal for a moment. “Are you sure that’s all of them?”

Garrus raises his head, looks out. A balmy wind ruffles the grass, but aside from that there’s not a hint of movement. His visor’s kill count flashes in the corner of his vision.

“Twenty-three to seven, Shepard. I win again.”

“Screw you.” Shepard counts quickly on her fingers. “Jerking you off counts as . . . seventeen points to me. That’s twenty-three to twenty-four. I’m the new king of the bottle shooters.”

“You can’t just make up new rules,” he protests.

“I’m the commanding officer of the Normandy,” she says, and winks at him. “I can do whatever I want. Now pull yourself together, Garrus, we still need to get into that base.” There is a significant pause. “Unless.”

“Unless?” It’s not like he really needs to ask. His visor, linked to her armour's sensors, is showing him her vitals, her elevated heart-rate and rapid breathing.

“Unless you feel like showing me how _grateful_ you are for my excellent leadership.” Garrus is on her before she even finishes talking, scrabbling at the seals of her armour. Shepard’s laughter rises into the warm air.

“At least pop the heat sink first,” she says. “That gun’s gonna overheat. And it was damn expensive.”

He’s got her chestplate off; he runs his hands over her waist, her breasts, hooks a talon through the zipper of her undersuit. “Worth it, though.”

“Yes.” She wraps her arms around his neck, kisses his scarred mandible. “You are.”

**Author's Note:**

> it's my first time writing fanfiction. so of course its some kind of weird porn. im so ashamed. i will probably write other things because im hyperfixating on this ridiculous video game. you can find me NOWHERE on the internet, because i refuse to tie my online presence to this monstrosity. 
> 
> anyway, wont someone please write more shep/garrus where garrus is the sub he obviously canonically is, so i don't have to?


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